Metamorphosis
by FancifulRivers
Summary: Draco's trying, but he's not a changed man yet. At least he's got Harry to keep him steady. (Written for the Hogwarts University Competition).


**Author's Note: Disclaimer as always that I don't own Harry Potter and never will.**

**This story is written for the Hogwarts University competition (for the scholarship program). Prompt is Draco/Harry.**

Rain trickled down on Draco Malfoy's head, befitting weather for his stormy mood. Nobody else was foolish enough to be out in a thunderstorm, but Draco had never been known for his common sense, had he?

He tipped his hood up, grimacing as cold water splattered down the back of his neck, soaking his shirt collar. He felt like a lovesick _fool_, that summed it up well enough. He was a fool, pining away for someone who may like him, but certainly wasn't pleased with him.

It had just slipped out at dinner. He knew that was no excuse-Harry certainly never thought it so-but he'd been trying to tell Harry what happened in Potions while Harry was in the Hospital Wing (Professor Snape had partnered Harry with Longbottom _again_), and Granger kept interrupting, and before he realised what he'd said, he'd blurted out, "Shut it, Mudblood."

And Granger had turned white, except for two hectic spots of colour high up in her cheeks, and Weasley had turned red to match his hair, and Harry had just looked up at him with so much _disappointment_ in those bottle-green eyes he could scarcely stand it-

So he'd ran. Oh, he'd attempted to make it look like a saunter, he still had a bit of familial pride. But it was a retreat, and everyone close enough to hear what he'd said knew it. The skies had opened up as soon as he was out the front doors and he relished it, even if it was making him shiver. Small price to pay, wasn't it?

And why did he _care_, that was the worst thing. The old Draco would have cursed all three of them as soon as the professors' backs were turned. The old Draco would have never tried to talk to Potter in the first place.

The new Draco hid his face in the sopping sleeves of his robes to hide the fact that not all the dampness on his cheeks was cold.

"Draco!"

He should have known Harry wouldn't leave him out here. His shoulders stiffened as he turned round to face Potter. If his eyes were red and puffy, perhaps he could blame it on the stinging wind.

"Potter," he said coolly. Harry raised an eyebrow, as if to inform Draco his lack of civility had been noted, yet ignored, and grabbed Draco's arm.

"Come on, you'll catch your death," Harry tugged in exasperation.

"I don't care," Draco muttered through stiff lips. His teeth had begun to chatter, though he tried to stop them.

"Right," Harry snorted and pulled harder. Draco found himself nearly falling headlong on the grass, where he would have taken Harry with him.

"Watch it," Draco sniped, but he finally gave up, letting Harry drag him along. Instead of heading into the Entrance Hall (where, no doubt, everyone else had finished eating and would love to gawk at him-the Malfoy heir, looking like a drowned rat!), he headed for a smaller entrance that led into the dungeons.

"Thanks," Draco mumbled, scarcely a breath of air, but Harry heard and hunched his shoulders in self-deprecating acceptance.

Despite the natural chill of the dungeon air, it still felt blessedly warm inside, and Draco paused for a moment to soak it in, heedless of the water he was dripping everywhere.

"Come on," Harry said again, leading the way to the Slytherin dormitories. "What's the password?" he added. "You haven't told me this week's."

"Boomslang," Draco said, and the wall slid open smoothly. The common room was empty, a fact Draco was enormously grateful for.

Upstairs in the seventh years' dorm, Harry sat Draco down on one end of his bed and rummaged through his trunk for clean clothes. _My father would have a fit if he saw this,_ Draco thought in a dreamy, dazed sort of way. But Lucius was locked up in Azkaban, and Narcissa had always been more aware than her husband of which way the wind was blowing-

Something she'd apparently not passed on to her son, Draco thought in miserable self-loathing, curling up into a damp ball. Harry paused, looking up with a handful of robes.

"Draco?" Harry questioned, and Draco exploded.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, leaning dangerously forward. One flailing hand caught the rail and steadied himself. "Is it just a way to twist the knife in further? One last pretense at caring before you throw me away?" His cheeks stained scarlet, infused with emotion. Harry's mouth dropped open, and Draco stared intently down at the carpet, unwilling to watch his future smash into pieces before his eyes.

"You _wanker_," Harry said, almost under his breath, and sighed. "Draco, I'm not going to throw you a-listen to me," he stressed, taking one of Draco's chilled hands in his own. "I'm not going to throw you away. Did you forget I like you? Love you even, maybe? You said something you shouldn't have, you didn't dance naked on the table and stab the Headmaster. Not that I would mind the first bit..." he trailed off, his own face turning pink.

"Er, you told me before if I ever said that word again, you'd cut my balls off and feed them to a hippogriff," Draco pointed out, still unsteady. Harry sighed again.

"I was exaggerating," he explained patiently. "I'm not pleased you called Hermione that. And I'd really _strongly_ prefer that you apologise to Hermione. But I'm not going to give up on you, just like that."

"Oh," Draco managed to say. It was all he _could_ say, all that would get out around the enormous lump in his throat.

Instead he flung himself forward, throwing Harry off balance, and sending them both tumbling to the floor.

It seemed to get the message across well enough.


End file.
